


Roadrunner

by GlamorousGamine



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Car Chases, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Family Drama, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:52:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4331037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlamorousGamine/pseuds/GlamorousGamine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Randall Miller tried to go home again, only to find Trevor Philips living there. When their first meeting leaves Randy looking like a loose end, a mad chase ensues. Randy desperately tries to keep her life together while staying just out of reach, but she never counted on Trevor's persistence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Can't Go Home Again

It had only been one minute since Randall Miller had been back in Blaine County, but she already wanted to leave. The heat was nothing new, but the quiet was something else. As she cruised down the dirt path in her motorcycle, she could feel her heart thudding in her ribcage, and that she could hear her engine meant that she was the only one on the road. 

The hellscape was a dead end, nothing but memories and a narrowly averted fate worse than death, but Randy pressed forward. It would be simple. Check in, maybe catch up, then back to civilization in Los Santos.

 _East Joshua… Marina… Zancudo…_ Randy turned left and brought her bike to a halt. The trailer was as much of a shithole as she remembered, though perhaps her memory had been unkind. Given who she had left behind in here, at least one of the walls should have missing by now, and there should’ve been some bloodstains on the outside. The corrugated metal wasn’t that rusty, and the porch, her former sanctuary, still looked sturdy. It still looked a mess, so that was familiar.

Randy removed her helmet to get a better look, and she wrinkled her nose when the smell of dried piss hit her nostrils, and that gave her pause. Her folks were angry, but they weren’t that shameless. She took another look at the porch. The potted plants were missing, as was the rocking chair. Perhaps she had the wrong address. _No._ Randy knew her childhood home, and it had been over ten years. They might’ve moved, but she had to make sure.

Bounding up the steps, she knocked on the door. Waiting in the heat, she unzipped and zipped her jacket, flapping the collar to cool herself off. Nothing. She knocked again, shouting, “M- Mrs. Miller?” Silence. “Miranda Miller? Hello? David Miller?” Nothing but the wind and, from the sounds of it, the approaching buzzards answered her call. Randy sighed and put her helmet back on, groaning at how hot it became. Maybe she’d come by another time, but still, she’d taken some time to finally see her folks and they weren’t even home.

Standing on the porch and facing the street, Randy felt a wave of nostalgia hit her. Despite everything, she’d had some good days and nights here, playing cards and hide and seek, eating Chinese take-out as she swatted at mosquitos and tried to catch the fireflies. _Is that restaurant still open?_ As her eyes travelled down the road, she saw to her glee that the ramp at the end was still there. _Where it all started…_ She started towards her bike, excited to see how easy it would be now that she had twenty years of-

“Hey!" 

She halted and turned. A mess of a man in nothing but his underwear exited his pickup and stalked towards her. From what she could see of his skin and body through her helmet, he was probably one of the local junkies. _Thank god he can’t see my face right now._

“The fuck are you doing here, huh?” he asked, stabbing a finger at her.

Randy lifted her face shield just enough to expose her mouth. “Do you know where the Millers are?” she asked in the deepest voice she could muster, helped by affecting the local accent. “If this is your place, they probably lived here bef-”

“I’m the one asking questions here,” he growled. “Who are you?”

“Uh…” Randy began to back towards her bike. “It’s Billy-“

“Nice fucking try,” he said, now sprinting distance away from her. “You ain’t a Billy. Now answer me truthfully this time or I’ll have to…”

Whatever he said after that, Randy didn’t hear, because at that moment, he had shoved his hand down his briefs and out sprang his… she barely gave herself time to think about it as she bolted for her bike and revved up the engine.

“Hey! Don’t you fuckin’ dare-!” His hand barely missed grabbing onto the back as she started towards the motel. One jump and she’d have a good head start. Shifting gears and accelerating, she aimed for the ramp, smirking as she saw him in the mirror, flailing to get his truck started. The smirk dropped as the truck burst towards her. That piece of junk did not deserve to go that fast. 

“Get back here!” he shouted. _Go fuck yourself_. Less than 5 seconds now. 4… 3… All thoughts of the maniac were temporarily banished as Randy went over the ramp. As she went over the roof and the pool (now empty, to her fleeting dismay), she lifted a fist in triumph. “WHOO!” _Even better than the first time._

Randy turned and raced down Joshua towards the Senora Freeway, but her heart jumped into her throat when she saw the truck fly over the motel. “No… You gotta be fuckin’… Fuck. FUCK!” She leaned forward, desperate now to get to top speed. 

He was shouting something at her, but she wasn’t going to let him close enough to hear. It seemed she had no choice, however, as the image of his truck got larger and larger in the mirror. By now, she had to remind herself to breathe as her heart refused to leave her throat.

“I’m sorry I showed my thingy, okay?” He honked at her. “Now will you slow down already? I just need to talk.”

Randy’s response was to accelerate. She gripped the handles tighter and grit her teeth, wondering if seeing her license plate would allow him to track her down. _Is he really smart or really stupid?_ Somebody who could pull off that jump in a pickup could be either. She thought of doing zigzags to kick up dust, but that guaranteed that he’d catch up to her.

_No way but forward._

Then, she heard a thunderclap, and the ground next to her burst.

“SLOW THE FUCK DOWN!” 

She took a deep breath and considered it. Her answer hadn’t changed. _Fuck you_. As long as she kept going, she still had a chance. Once he caught her, it was over. She glanced in the mirror. He was shooting with his right. _So much for turning around and knocking it out of his hand._ She shook her head. Even if she could grab it, she’d as likely get thrown off her bike by the sudden stop. The ground around her kept exploding, and she began making zigzag motions with her bike before realizing that he was gaining on her. _Sonuva- gotta keep going._

As the freeway finally came into view, Randy saw that rush hour was beginning. Decelerating as little as possible, she merged onto the upper Senora South and began lane splitting, hoping the traffic would throw off her pursuer. Her breathing evened slightly, and her heart seemed to settle back into its proper cavity. She suddenly realized how sweaty she was underneath her helmet and jacket, but now wasn’t the time to- 

HONK HONK HONK! And just like that Randy was in panic mode again. He wasn't pointing a gun at her anymore, and she could see his teeth as he… grinned at her? Shaking her head and eyes forward again, she began to frantically look for a way out as she kept herself in the center of the road, dismayed to find that he easily weaved himself between the cars to keep up with her.

Then, she saw it up ahead, a mound of dirt that overlooking the lower path of the freeway. She took one last glance in the mirror and forced her breathing to be even. She had to time this right, or else he would follow her too soon, or she would fall. Either way, she’d lose. She stayed in the center, keeping an eye out for cars on her left. 

“Clear, clear…” Right as the mound came up, she jerked her bike to the left. The edge of the barrier grazed her right elbow as she flew towards and off the mound, and she didn’t have to look back to know that it worked as she heard tires screeching. Standing on the bike as she flew underneath the overpass, Randy flew through the air. Gripping the bike with her legs, she pumped both her fists in the air. “Fuck you!” Everything went quiet, and for once, Randy relished in it as she felt the sun roasting her through her jacket and saw how tiny the cars were. As soon as she felt gravity take over, the magic was over, and she lowered herself and prepared to land in the roadside. The familiar thud shook her, but at least she was alive, and she quickly merged onto the road without a single glance back. 

* * *

By the time Trevor realized what "Billy" had done, it was too late for him to change course and follow. Punching the dashboard, he slammed the other vehicles out of the way in a vain attempt to see where the bastard was going at least. By the time he made his way to the lower Senora South, the bike was a dot on the horizon, and traffic was getting too heavy for him to keep up. 

He snorted to himself as he made his way to Los Santos. He really had meant to just talk with them. He’d just gotten home after another wonderful night he couldn’t remember, and he hadn’t eaten in who knows how long. He didn’t like people sneaking around, not so soon after he thought he’d tied up all his loose ends. The obvious lying had gotten to him, and it wasn’t his fault that his crotch itched while he was interrogating. Before he knew it, the loose end was trying to get away, and he sure as fuck wasn’t going to let that happen.

As the chase went on though, Trevor found himself having the most fun he’d had since that day he iced Haines and dumped Devo into the ocean. Whoever this bastard was, they were good. He wasn’t going to kill them, especially since he didn’t know who sent them.

Taking a smoke from his pipe as he headed into Los Santos, he felt his face split into a grin. Even if the biker had gotten away, the chase had gone on long enough for Trevor to get a good look at the license plate. 

* * *

A stop at Los Santos Customs gave Randy’s beloved Ruffian a much-needed paint job. She decided she’d grown sick of the yellow it came in, and that a nice, average silver would be preferable, though the painter had considered it heresy.

“Silver?” Marcus asked, grinning. “On a Ruffian? Please, it has to be red or-”

“Strange as this may sound, darling,” Randy sighed, “I’m trying not to stand out on this one. Oh, you got any vanity plates? I’d like something kinda stupid funny to replace the numbers and letters back there.”

Marcus just shook his head and got to work.

Randy sat to the side, but couldn’t quite sit down. She was still on high alert even when exhausted, and she needed to be able to run at a moment’s notice. Her foot was tapping, and she willed it to stop, not wanting to seem impatient. She cracked her knuckles, scratched her arms, and ran her fingers through her hair.

“You okay?” Marcus called to her.

“Yeah,” she replied. “Just really bad traffic today.” She nodded towards her bike. Marcus nodded and got back to the job.

Taking deep breaths nearly caused her to throw up, so Randy took out her phone and began to plan. On the off chance that the maniac was smart enough to track her through her license plate, she needed to find a place to live until the heat died down. She made a list of all the things she needed to pack, what she could reasonably replace and how much that would cost her, and add it all up along with food, rent, and gas so she knew how much to withdraw from the bank. She was just about to look up motels when Marcus announced that the bike was ready.

“Yeah, I’ll-” Randy paused. “Can you hold on a sec while I go to the ATM?” When Marcus nodded, she dashed out, leaving her jacket behind. 

It was across the street, but it might as well have been on the other side of the state. Randy needed the light to be safe, but it also made it easier for her to be seen. She slid in her card and withdrew enough money to pay Marcus and for two weeks of living away from home, thanking her lucky stars that she’d had stunt jobs recently. She jumped when she heard honking, but calmed a bit when she heard two drivers start an argument at the stoplight.

While the distraction was present, Randy dashed back to LSC and paid Marcus. Gathering her jacket and her bike, she raced back to her apartment in Del Perro. The moment she was in the front door, she threw the deadbolt behind her and began gathering things into her backpack. _Passport and other vital papers… laptop… chargers… toothbrush…_ Her eyes gave the now stuffed bag a quick once over before she bolted out the door and onto her bike. A cold flash of fear ran through her as she realized she hadn’t checked to see if she was followed. She glanced at her bike, then waited for any suspicious movement just behind the corner. After an eternity, she finally threw the ignition.

A crash sounded and Randy nearly rushed into oncoming traffic. Once her vision was clear again, she saw it was nothing more than the cat tipping over the garbage lid. Flipping off the miserable creature, Randy took off for the Perrera Beach motel. “Two weeks. Please let me make it two weeks.” She glanced at her phone. That was one security risk she would have to take. She was in the middle of a job right now, and she would no longer have one if nobody could reach her.

“For fuck’s sake…” she sighed, eager to sleep. All of this because she wanted to check in on her parents, try and be their “good girl” for once. Even when they weren’t around anymore, the found a way of putting her through the wringer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the random switch-to-Trevor moment where he yells, "I'm sorry I showed my thingy, okay?" Also by a conversation with a friend where I said that if I met Trevor in real life, I'd "run for the hills".


	2. Intel and Motel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miranda was the first name that popped into my head when I had to come up with a name for Randy's mother. It wasn't until after the fact that I realized how perfect it was. Maybe my subconscious knew something.

"And you couldn't have waited tomorrow for this because?" Lester groaned as Trevor paced around behind him.

"Because then they'd have more time to get away, you asshole," Trevor growled back. "Now whaddya got for me?"

"Well, this was pretty easy-"

"Then stop whining so much already, huh?"

Lester rolled his eyes. "The motorcycle is registered to Randall Miller. Stuntwoman who lives in Del Perro." The monitor showed a driver's license featuring a white woman with short, slicked light blonde hair; brown eyes; and a strong jawline. She looked clean, and Trevor was surprised when he looked at her birthday and found that she was already thirty-six. "Last registered activity was using her ATM card in Burton outside of Los Santos Customs. So-" Lester wheeled around to face Trevor and continued, "she probably knows that you're looking for her and is preparing for it."

"She has no idea, Wheels," Trevor said. "Where was she born?"

"Hang on a moment," Lester turned back and typed. "That'll take some more time." Trevor grumbled but didn't complain. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed the back of his neck, still sore from whiplash. It might not be her. He never saw who was underneath the helmet. The bike could've been stolen by someone who'd done their research in stealing an identity as well.  _Then why lie about their name?_   Maybe she was just trying to visit her family, but he couldn't take the risk. A stuntwoman would know how to race like that, and who knows what she was doing on the side. Another Blaine County daredevil... "Something in the fuckin' water..." _  
_

"What was that?"

"Shut up. You got anything yet?"

"Well, she probably wasn't lying when she tried to tell you the purpose of her visit," Lester gestured to the documents on display. "That trailer of yours used to belong to a David Miller. Wife Miranda, and their daughter Randall. Moved out in '97."

"Miranda and Randall," Trevor snorted. "Yeah, place was empty when I got there, after I cleaned out a few squatters." He chuckled at the memory.

Lester glared at him. "So now that we've established that she was, in fact, just trying to visit her parents, will you drop it?"

"Whoa, whoa, we don't know that, Lest," Trevor said. "I am _not_ leaving a _loose end_ out there. For all we know, this is-" His eyes widened. "Wait a minute. She's a stuntwoman, right? Is she working on anything right now? Anything with Michael involved?"

Lester groaned and rubbed his temples. "You keep requesting information that takes more time and effort to acquire," he griped. "I feel I have earned the right to whine a bit." With a sigh, he turned back to his computer. "But, assuming that's all you want to know, I won't keep you here." He waved his hand in dismissal. "I'll call you when I have the info."

"You fuckin' better."

"Until then," Lester turned his head, "don't do anything stupid."

"Oh fuck you," Trevor shouted back before exiting the house. The last remark had gotten him agitated all over again. He was trying to keep all of them alive, the ungrateful cunt. Nobody knew how to say thank you anymore. He punched the address from the license into his phone. He couldn't wait.

* * *

Marcus was a cruel, cruel man, fitting her bike with a temporary vanity plate that said "FOXY". His payback for her color choice. It was the least of Randy's gripes though. The Burger Joint meal was turning her stomach, and now that the rush was fully gone, her entire body burned and twitched, begging for rest. On the off chance that her Ruffian would stand out even with the paint job, she considered parking it away from the motel and walking there. Her feet ached in protest, however, and she couldn't risk having it stolen or be caught too far from it.

She parked her bike and walked up the stairs to room 203, eyes darting in every direction behind her sunglasses. A familiar weight against her thigh reminded her of where she kept her stun gun. As soon as she got back into her room and shut the door, she let out a sob.  _I might be doing this over nothing._ It could just be a madman who'd gone back to his home as soon as he'd lost her.  _A madman who chased you into rush hour traffic_. Randy opened her eyes and stared at the room.

She tried to quiet her thoughts as she stumbled into the bathroom and began to draw a bath. The sound of the water calmed her a bit. Still, if not for this, she could be out practicing her jumps, eating actual food, and being able to sleep without hearing someone fake an orgasm in the next room. Her eyes drifted over the rising water, and for a moment, she wished someone would throw some ice water over her, wake her up, tell her that she'd better get back on set soon because they needed another take.

The water was high and steaming now, so Randy slowly lowered herself into the water, hissing as she felt herself melt in the tub. She whimpered when her right arm entered, the water stinging the large bruise on it. As she finally lay down and lay her head on the edge, the soothing feeling was quickly replaced with dread when she felt some sand scrape her butt and back. She writhed a bit, trying to get it out from under her, when she noticed something float up from the drain. It took everything not to scream when saw that it was a few strands of curly dark hair.

"Fuck. You. Maniac," Randy seethed, tears spilling from her eyes. 

* * *

At first glance, Randall's apartment was so open and clean that Trevor felt satisfied just kicking in the door and leaving bootprints on the floor. If not for the dishes in the sink and the full laundry basket, it may've been hard to tell that anyone was living here at all. The blanket on the couch was neatly folded, a yoga mat was rolled up beneath the window, and it was all making Trevor want to puke up the chicken nuggets he'd found in the dumpster outside.

It seemed that two people might be living at the apartment. The walls were plastered with both hair metal bands and classic Vinewood broads, some bullshit New Age tea candles sat under set a rack full of bike repair gear, and to Trevor's utter disgust, a CD rack had saccharinely sweet Japanese pop music mixed in with Station X classics.  _Boyfriend living here? Another loose end?_

Trevor turned the living room and kitchen upside down looking for anything suspicious. Every piece of furniture was overturned or emptied out. He emptied all her books, and though a dictionary he found was hollow, whatever it contained had already been removed. No weapons, surveillance, or drugs were found (no alcohol either, the prude), so Trevor made his way to the bathroom. It was even more sterile than the rest of the house, and Trevor was convinced that there was no boyfriend in the picture by the lack of anything even remotely masculine on either the counter or in the cabinet. At least, not a boyfriend that he couldn't scare off easily. Still, after every bottle had been dumped on the shower floor, Trevor had found nothing. Finally, he went to her bedroom.

He was greeted with a giant map of San Andreas that nearly covered the wall next to the bed. It was riddled with push pins, marker, and Post-It notes, most of them in Los Santos. There were dates labeled, weather symbols, and he noticed that flames and skulls had been drawn all over Sandy Shores, with a nearby Post-It screaming "Go to hell, hell, HELL!" and an arrow drawn straight at where his trailer was. He reached out to tear it down and let the enemy lose their precious intel, but stopped himself. There seemed to be a pattern to the push pins, and there was no fuckin' way he could do the job before Randall got home and keep the pins in place. Whipping out his phone, Trevor took as many photos as he could of the monstrosity so he could study it later.

He was about to start turning her room over when the photos on her desk made him stop. One was of a man who looked like Randall's younger brother, sharing her eyes and jaw. Another was a teenage Randall straddling a motorcycle, arms lifted and cheering next to the Office Motel ramp. The last frame held no pictures, just a $100 dollar bill. Trevor didn't even want to steal it. For a moment, he understood the hellion, and knew exactly why she'd framed the money. Shaking his head, he got back to work, carefully removing the pictures from the frames to see if anything was behind them. He went through the bed, under it, and ran his fingers over the map to make sure nothing was behind it. As he went through her closet and saw an assortment jeans and T-shirts next to modest white wrap dresses, he got goosebumps on his arms and legs. A quick glance outside showed that it was just past sunset.  _Jesus, how long have I been here?_  Trevor grabbed one of the dresses and slipped it on, relieved at how warm it was.

Trevor went from room to room and looked at the place. Everything that she owned was strewn on the floor somewhere in a great big interconnected pile, except the tea candles, which he'd tossed in the trash. He considered it payback for trespassing at his place, and now all he had to do was wait for her to come back so that they could finally talk.

He flipped the couch back over and got comfortable, and growled when his phone rang. "Hello?"

"Good hunch, Trevor," Lester answered. "Miller's working stunts tomorrow for the next overhyped blockbuster  _Bombshell_ , and Michael will be there. They start shooting at 9AM in Backlot City, and judging by the catering, they're preparing to be there all day."

"Yeah, thanks."

"Dare I ask what you're up to?"

"While you were taking your sa-weet time, I've been doing my own work," Trevor yelled. "I'm in her apartment."

"You're what?!"

"Relax, will ya? She's not home," Trevor muttered. "Girl looked clean until I saw her bedroom. She might be planning something, Lest, a score. If she's not a loose end, I think I might have some competition to eliminate."

"What did I say about-"

"Hey, she shows up at my place, has been working with Michael for god knows how long, and now it turns out she's kinda like you with tits and nice legs?" Trevor laughed and then snarled. "I think we've got some reason to be concerned, which is why I'm waiting here until she comes home."

Lester sighed. "A bit late for that," he said. "From what I could piece together from a security camera in her apartment complex, she went home after getting her bike repainted and then left with her things. She's probably hiding until she thinks you'll stop looking for her."

"Well why didn't you say so earlier?" Trevor got up and headed for the door. "Where is she now?"

"That I don't know."

"Lester..."

"Look, you know where to find her tomorrow. If anything, I suggest you call Michael." Lester hang up.

"ARGH!" Trevor's grip on his phone tightened. He picked up a J-pop CD at his feet and flung it against the wall, the resulting crack giving him a small smile. "Not even a thank you for my work. Bastards. All of them."  _I'll pay Michael a visit tomorrow_. With that, he slammed the door shut and shoved some debris in front of it, and went back to the couch for a nap.

* * *

Randy had scrubbed her skin raw in the shower to get the filthy feeling completely off, and now she itched everywhere. The bed felt too hot, and her tossing and turning was not making things better. She couldn't help it. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard something that made her heart and breathing halt. A footstep by her door, a creak, the engine of what could be a pickup parking right below her window.

She wanted barricade her room, but then she couldn't escape if he came through the window. The stun gun was on the night stand, and everything had been stowed back in her backpack in case she needed to make a quick getaway. She kept imagining various scenarios and planning how she'd get away. What if he held her at gunpoint?  _No, he wouldn't kill me. He had his chance. He wants a chase._ _He'd let me run._ She glanced at the clock. 12:17 AM. She had to get to sleep soon, or else she couldn't perform at her best tomorrow.

An engine rumbled outside, and this one caused Randy's to shiver.  _Can't be..._ She grabbed her bag and stun gun and took a peek outside the window into the parking lot. It was too dark to see the vehicle clearly, but the headlights definitely belonged to a pickup. A man stepped out of it, his face concealed by a trucker hat. He was roughly the same height and build, and her heart began pounding.

Randy tried not to make sounds when she breathed and crept out of her room, wincing at the loud squeak the door made. She headed for the stairs, but changed course when she heard someone come up. She kept going down the corridor towards where the elevators were, picking up the pace and finally dashing. Before she could be seen, she had gotten in and closed the doors.

She had hoped to simply wait in there for a few minutes, but the elevator began to move down, and immediately Randy began to chastise herself. This was the worst possible position to have been in. What if he was down there now, waiting for her? There was only one way out and he'd be blocking it.

The doors then opened, and Randy wanted the floor to swallow her when she faced the man in the trucker hat. Her eyes dropped to the floor as she said her prayers and-

"You getting off or not?"

She glanced back up. The voice was much smoother, and even in the dim lighting, she could see that his skin was smoother as well, what little of it could be seen underneath a neatly trimmed beard. This wasn't the maniac. He looked down at her from the open doors and his brows furrowed. "You sick or something?"

Randy shook her head and got off the elevator and outside the motel for some much needed fresh air. Her hands were shaking, she wanted to throw up, and her eyes were burning with unshed tears. Before she had a public meltdown, she had a few calming breaths. She headed back inside, took the stairs back to her room, and set her things back into place. She ran into the bathroom and gagged into the toilet. A few trails of spit came out, but no food, despite her earlier nausea. A few of her tears shed at the force, but Randy held those back.

After she was certain there was nothing to puke, she stood up, legs trembling, and got back to bed. The moment her head hit the pillow, Randy buried her face and finally allowed herself to sob. She continued to do so until she finally fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I lied, ScooterSister, and I am sorry. Michael won't be showing up until next chapter. I ended up finding more story than I intended when Trevor's lack of respect for personal boundaries wrote the reconnaissance scenes for me.


	3. Trapped

When she first left Sandy Shores all those years ago, Randy had a grand plan. She was going to be wealthy, she wouldn't turn into her parents, and she would die either in a mirrored bed of furs and diamonds or in a blaze of glory on a motorcycle. Remembering all of this, Randy wondered how much glory there was to be had in being hit by an oncoming semi.

* * *

_Earlier..._

The veggie burrito and coffee from the nearby supermarket deli was a step up for Randy. The sour cream and beans were bland and the brew tasted burnt, but it went down easy and didn't make her stomach do somersaults in protest.

The ride to work was routine, familiar. Drivers glaring at her for lane splitting, honking that went perfectly in tune in rhythm with whatever radio stations were blaring, and the wind. Randy sighed as the breeze hit her. The sun wasn't too high yet, and the clouds were a pale pink and yellow color. She called it strawberry and banana yogurt colored when she was young, to the amusement of the adults that had heard her. Randy frowned beneath her helmet. The reminiscing wasn't going to do her any good. It was behind her, and now she was practically banned from ever going back there.  _Maybe the maniac was good for something after all_.

At that thought, Randy's stomach dropped and her heart launched itself back in her throat. She had already arrived at the studio, so she parked and gazed at the silver paint on her bike before whipping her head around, looking for the truck and the maniac. Her hand clenched around the get back whip on her handlebar. _Stupid stupid stupid. You could've been followed, and you were just enjoying the weather. What the fuck is wrong with you? Whoa now. Don't run. If he's hiding he'll see you. Just act natural. Get to work_. Her head kept buzzing at her as she made her way inside and dropped her stuff off in the designated trailer.

When she got to hair and makeup, however, Randy laughed at her own paranoia. She was surrounded by people in peak physical fitness with the fighting skills to match, there was dangerous equipment everywhere, it was light out, and some of the best security money could buy was just a button push away. She took some deep breaths and relaxed her throat as her long blonde hair was combed out with cream and her face was airbrushed to uncanny valley perfection. Settling into a haze of hairspray and powder, Randy smiled. Nothing was going to happen to her here.

* * *

"What the  _fuck_ are you doing here Trevor? And why are you wearing _that_?"

"Nice to see you too, Mikey," Trevor said, surveying the set. "What is all this?"

"Answer the question," Michael hissed.

"Don't worry about me, all right? I'm just tying up some loose ends, and as for the dress, it was there, okay?"

 _That_  finally got Michael's attention. "What? Listen, T, whatever grudge you have with whoever's working here, leave it until the shooting's done, alright?" Michael said. "We need to get this-"

"It's not a personal grudge," Trevor said, getting agitated. "I'm trying to save _our_ lives here, so show some _fucking_ appreciation, will you? Where's Randall Miller?"

 "Who?"

"Randall. Miller," Trevor growled, voice rising. "Stuntwoman. Blonde. She showed up at my place yesterday and I had to chase her all the way to Los Santos. Her bike's parked outside."

Michael thought for a moment. "Wait, Randy? Trevor you sure this isn't just you getting back at a one night stand or something? I can't really see why she'd-"

"What part of 'saving our lives' do you not fucking understand?" Trevor shouted. "Where is-"

"Mr. De Santa?" An assistant came up. "We're ready to start when you are." She glanced briefly at Trevor. "Is there a problem here?"

"Don't worry about it. I'll be over soon. Thanks." Michael dismissed the assistant and turned back to Trevor. "All right. I dunno where she is right now, but we'll be shooting the scene with her in it right after this one. Once that's done, I can call her over and we can talk. Until then, keep a low profile, all right? I hate doing retakes and chances are she'll bolt if she sees you."

"Rrrgh. Fine," Trevor said, scanning the set as he looked for a comfortable place to sit. The fake atmosphere of the set and the people working in it set his teeth on edge, and now he'd have to wait. There were several blonde women on set, but none of them looked like Randy. He had to find her, and soon, so he could keep an eye on her. How hard would it be to spot someone raised in Sandy Shores?

* * *

Ripping off a chunk of the sandwich, Randy popped it into her mouth, careful not to smear her lipstick or get anything on her costume. Lacey Jonas kept glancing nervously at her, but the starlet had learned to keep her mouth shut about her stunt double's appetite, though Randy couldn't help herself in return.

"You sure you don't want one?" Randy licked her fingers. "Mm. They're pretty good, and it might be a more convincing match on camera if you gain some-"

"Shut up!" Lacey snapped. "You know I can't afford to go up a dress size, I'd lose the Anna Rex contract. If you're so concerned about us matching, get some fillers already."

Randy shrugged. "Suit yourself, sweetie." It hardly stung. The girl had a good heart and a lot of talent, but had warped underneath the pressures of celebrity. On more than one occasion, Lacey had begged her for a ride home so that the paparazzi couldn't catch her. Those parasitic parents of hers certainly weren't doing her any favors. It made Randy grateful that she'd found her niche in stunt work rather than acting.

"I'm sorry, Lacey," Randy said, feeling guilty over torturing her work sister. "How about some tomatoes or cucumbers instead? They're mostly water, and they look pretty organic. I should know, I've grown some."

Lacey hesitated, but finally smiled. "That'd be awesome." Gathering some on a paper plate, Randy handed it to her acting double.

As Lacey finished the tomatoes, they heard the director yell, "Cut! That's a wrap for Scene 32a. Let's get ready for 25b."

Lacey and Randy left the catering table and walked on set. Hair and makeup swarmed Lacey as they touched her up, and Randy stepped back to take another look at the set. The script called for the assassin Bombshell to be chased into the alley and then do a running kick off of the wall onto the car. They'd be getting Lacey's closeups and wide shots first. At the moment, there was nothing for Randy to do but check to make sure her phone was on silent and join everyone else to watch the filming on the monitor.

"Quiet on set!"

Randy put her phone away, and in that moment of utter silence, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She stayed still, not wanting to give away her returning paranoia, but something was off. It felt as if she was being watched, and there was something in the air that smelled... familiar.  _It couldn't be_.

"Sound ready?"

"Ready."

_If he was here, he'd be shouting at me._

"Lights ready?"

"Ready."

_He's nowhere to be seen._

"Camera ready?"

"Ready."

_They'd catch him. They will._

"Actors ready?"

"Ready."

_Just stay calm._

" _Bombshell_ Scene 25b, Take 1, Action!"

Randy bit her knuckle. She was safe. There was nothing to worry about.

* * *

"Cut! Bring in the stunt double."

"Ugh, finally," Lacey griped. "Get me out of this suit. All this sweat is gonna clog my pores over here. Hey Randy, is there any bottled water left?"

"Plenty."

"Good luck." Lacey high-fived her double as Randy stepped into the "alley".

Now that everyone was staring at her, her nerves only intensified. Not even getting her hair and makeup touched up could soothe her. She stared into the headlights of the car that was supposed to chase her. Bombshell was running from a rival assassin. Randy was running from a maniac, and now she vaguely remembered some acting lesson on using your current emotions to inform your acting choices.  _It's just a wall kick, and damn it if you're getting caught._ Straightening her spine, she waited as the check was done, and when it called for stunt worker, Randy shouted, "Ready!" as clearly and steadily as she could. _  
_

"Action."

The car sped towards her and Randy fled into the alley. Her lungs burning, she jumped off of the wall, then kicked back towards the car, landing in a crouch on the hood.

As she readied her foot to kick in the windshield, the director yelled, "Cut! Beautiful. Let's do another take. Randy, can you arch your back a bit more when you land?"

Suppressing the urge to groan at the impending pain, Randy responded in the affirmative. It wasn't anything she wasn't used to. She long since learned to develop temporary deafness when it came to take counts. They shot her from as many angles as they could, asking her to land in a crouch, on her butt, on all fours, and from high angles, low angles, eye-level, inside the car, and various other combinations that Randy didn't care about as long as her body wasn't permanently broken. By the time they had gotten the angles they'd wanted, Randy's legs and back were beginning to burn.

She went to her trailer and changed out of her costume, thankful that at least they weren't shooting outside in the heat. She exited the trailer and slipped her helmet on when she saw Michael approaching.

"Hey, the hot shot _associate_  producer himself," Randy teased, lifting her face shield. "Do you need anything, Michael? I didn't think I had any more scenes to shoot today."

"You don't," he said. "Before you go, though, there's someone I need you to talk to."

There it was again, that horrible, horrible feeling. "Sir, have I done something wrong? If there's a problem, I can save you a helicopter-"

"It's not that," Michael shook his head. Randy's unease was making this difficult. "It's... he just-"

"Oh save it sugar tits and just introduce me already, huh?"

Michael wouldn't get the chance to introduce them now. On instinct, Randy had turned to flee the moment that rusty voice had registered in her ears. A hand reached to grab her arm, and the stench cued Randy to turn around and slam a fist into the maniac's face. He let go of her, and Randy barely registered that he was wearing one of  _her_ dresses before running again, slamming down her face shield.

She heard Michael call out, "Randy! Randy! Trevor, what did I say about keeping a low profile?!"

 _Trevor_. Randy thought about going deeper into Backlot City, losing him in the maze of sets, but her legs were aching. She had to get back to her Ruffian. She kept running, not daring to look back, even as Trevor and Michael kept shouting.

"Don't shoot her, T!"

"For fuck's sake, how many times am I going to have to do this?"

It was a mercifully short sprint from the trailer to the parking lot, but it made it easy for Trevor to keep pace with her. She could hear the swishing of the dress and she clenched her teeth.  _He's been to my apartment._  She would be lucky if she even still had one by the time she got this stalker off her back. Launching herself onto her bike, Randy jammed the key into ignition and kicked off. For good measure, she cracked the whip around her just in case he was about to grab on.

Her whip didn't hit anything because Trevor was already in his truck and about to start the engine. Randy sped into the street and turned left. To her chagrin, traffic was light, and it wouldn't be long before Trevor would catch up to her. She weaved in between what cars there were, but Trevor copied her movements with ease. She had no destination in mind, and she had to pay attention for alleyways to duck into and cops while going way too far above speed limit to not attract attention.

In spite of it all, Randy found herself grinning. "Well Roadrunner, looks like you're back." Eyes forward, whip at the ready, and with a bleeding, grinning lunatic in her rearview mirror.

She jerked her bike to enter a narrow alley on the other side of the street, and as expected, Trevor followed suit, not even crashing with any oncoming vehicles. His truck, however, had more difficulty entering the alley than her bike did, and a crash into the wall put distance between them. Once she exited the alley, Randy headed south for Little Seoul. Unfortunately, Trevor made it out in time to see where her bike was going.

The light up ahead was red, but Randy quickly glanced at the perpendicular lights on her right to see that they were red, too. If she was fast enough, she could make this. With Trevor gaining on her, Randy accelerated and sped into the intersection.

A deep, loud honk shook her out of her adrenaline trip, and Randy was faced with an oncoming grill bigger than her bike. The lights were blinding her, and ever nerve in her body seemed to come alive with lightning surging through them.

When she first left Sandy Shores all those years ago, Randy had a grand plan. She was going to be wealthy, she wouldn't turn into her parents, and she would die either in a mirrored bed of furs and diamonds or in a blaze of glory on a motorcycle. Remembering all of this in a fraction of a second, Randy wondered how much glory there was to be had in being hit by an oncoming semi.

 _None. Not like this_.

Decelerating, Randy spun her bike to the right, barely avoiding the truck and facing oncoming traffic. She saw in the rearview now that the lights for the other side of the street were green, allowing for left turns. Ignoring the panicked honking, she dove into another alley while the truck blocked Trevor's view of her.

She barely glanced in the mirror as she kept riding through Little Seoul with her heart racing as fast as the rest of her was, making sure she didn't retrace any routes on the off chance that Trevor would spot her. When her head cleared up, Randy found herself heading for Vespucci beach. She hadn't seen Trevor's truck for miles now, and felt confident in taking a breather.

Stopping at the pier and shifting to neutral, she got off and guided her bike down with her to the beach, just in case, ignoring how her legs were jelly now. The moment she got into the shade and the cool air hit her, Randy parked her bike and fell to her knees, sighing at how cool the sand was. She peeled off her jacket and jeans, stuffing the latter into her backpack, and lay on the sand. Her hands and feet dug into it, and she kept scooping up handfuls of it to run through her fingers.

She gazed up at the sunlight that shone through the cracks of the floorboards. Turning her head, Randy looked at her bike and sighed. She owed Marcus another visit when all of this was done. The scrapes and dents on her baby wounded her to see, not to mention the apparent damage to the undercarriage if the red blinking light was... any...

Randy suddenly felt much colder than the sand alone would've made her. Reaching out, she grabbed at the source of the light and felt tape. With a quick yank, she pulled off the tracker and stared at it. Slumping back on the sand, Randy took a deep breath and exhaled. The morning coffee and the adrenaline had definitely worn off, and she didn't want to get back up onto her bike. She turned the transmitter in her hands over and over, and wondered how long she could hold her breath underwater and hide that way. Before any plans could form, she heard footsteps and brought her eyes back to the floorboards.

Trevor leaned over her, allowing her to get a good look at his face. "Hey. Ready to talk now,  _Randy?_ " Her eye twitched at how he emphasized her name. "Or am I going to have to tie you to that post to make sure you don't run again?"

Randy dropped the transmitter and stared at him. What else could she do? When he began to bare his teeth in impatience, she sighed. "All right. I'll talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chase could only last so long before everyone got sick of it, and I can't wait to start the next story arc. Randy's mistake with the lights is one that I made once that nearly got me hit by a bus while on my bicycle.


	4. Risk Assessment

For someone who led him halfway across the state and had treated him like the plague, Randy was rather docile now that Trevor had finally gotten her to talk with him. Well, not just him. Michael was with them at the seaside snack shack, slumped in a chair and fiddling with a cigarette. Randy's brows knit whenever he took a puff, though her eyes were focused on Trevor.

"All right," Randy sighed, stirring her milkshake. "You caught me. I'm sorry I was trespassing. Is that all?"

"Trespassing?" Trevor snarled. "You think I chased you all the way to this shithole of a city because I thought you were _trespassing_?" He leaned forward with every word, but Randy didn't break eye contact.

"Easy, T," Michael said. "We just want to know why you were trespassing."

Randy took a sip of her drink. "I was up there trying to check in on my parents. I hadn't been up to Sandy Shores in a long time, and I wanted to make sure they weren't dead or something." Her eyes shifted between Trevor, Michael, and the fries on the table. "I didn't know that they had moved and that _you_ -," she stared straight at Trevor, "-were living there. If I had, believe me, I never would've made the trip."

"You got a problem with me living there?" Trevor hands clenched into fists. The last thing he fucking needed was another asshole looking down at him.

"Not at all," Randy said, breaking eye contact to eat some fries. "Do whatever you want with the place. Burn it down for all I care." Her frown deepened. "I'm sad to see that the vegetable garden is gone though. Was that still there when you moved-"

"Don't change the fuckin' subject," Trevor said. "Next, how did you end up workin' on a movie with my friend here?"

"They needed someone who looked like Lacey Jonas and could do the necessary tricks," Randy said. "That's all there is to it. I usually go for gigs that will pay or that allow me to travel somewhere nice, not who the producer is. No offense."

"None taken." Michael's laugh was hollow, and he put out his cigarette.

"I don't mean any harm to either of you," Randy said. "After we're done here, I just want to continue my life as usual."

Trevor took out his phone. "See, all of this is pret-ty fuc-kin' _convenient_ , Randall." There it was again, her flinching when he said her name. A grin split across his face. "Me and Mikey, we had some _friends_ who needed to be reeducated a while back, and right when we think all our work is done, you show up on a movie set with him and you pay me a visit. You're telling me that all of that is a coincidence?"

Randy took a long sip of her milkshake. She made a fist, released it, and said, "Yes, that's what I'm saying. What do I have to say or do to prove I'm not a threat?"

"Explain this." Trevor showed her his phone as he flipped through the photos of the map in her apartment. He stopped at the sticky note next to his trailer. "Kinda looks suspicious, don't you think?"

Randy stared at the phone, blinking a few times. Her expression was blank as she gently pushed the phone away from her, clasping her hands together and hiding her eyes behind them. He could hear her take several deep breaths through her nose as she started shaking, and Michael sat up, finally taking this seriously. Trevor reached out to grab her in case she tried to make a break for it. He leaned in close enough to hear the choked noises she was making, and Randy burst into giggles.

"Oh god (heh). I'm sorry (hnk). Okay, hold on," Randy took a few deep breaths. "Okay, I'm good (heh). When you show it to me like that it does look creepy."

"Well what is it?" Michael asked.

Another round of giggles shook through Randy before she calmed herself. "That's a map of all the places in San Andreas I've done a memorable stunt jump, or plan to. Green ones I've completed, yellow I have a target date, red I need more info on so I don't die in my attempt. But yeah," Randy was straining not to grin, "it does look like a stalker map. Wow."

"What's with all the goth shit around Sandy Shores, especially the weird curse you have pointed at _my_ trailer?"

Randy's grin relaxed and her eyes took on a sleep-deprived look. Ducking her head and finding the ground very interesting, she muttered, "Didn't I say I hadn't been up to Sandy Shores in a long time? There was nothing for me there, and after I got that map, first time I was in a bad mood, I took it out on that hellhole with a Sharpie." She looked up with open eyes, straight at Trevor and Michael, and shook her head. "C'mon, I'm not giving you my life's story, that's not important. That Post-It note's been on there for so long and I just never took it down."

Trevor glared at her. If she was acting, she was damn good at it, but she was hiding something, and Trevor considered pinning her down and force-feeding her sand until she revealed all of her damage.

Michael got up, placing a hand on Trevor's shoulder. "Easy, T. I don't think there's anything to worry about."

Randy stood up, squaring her shoulders and returning Trevor's glare. "Now, since you have photos of my bedroom walls and are wearing one of _my_ dresses," she said, stepping close to Trevor, "are there any surprises I should be on the lookout for in my apartment? Hair in the drain, surveillance equipment, _bombs_?"

"Bombs? Who the fuck do you take me for?! No I didn't leave anything there," Trevor snarled at her casual tone. "Just a little messy."

"Messy," Randy repeated. Her eyes scanned him from head to toe and back and only Michael's hand squeezing his shoulder kept Trevor from knocking her teeth out. She shrugged, tossing the now empty cup in the trash. "All right. So, are we good?"

"One last question," Trevor said, shoving Michael's hand off his shoulder. Randy stared at him expectantly. "Where'd you learn to ride like that?"

Randy's eyes narrowed at the question, and he could see the gears in her head as she tried to figure out how to answer the question. "Twenty years of riding, stunt work, a lot of it with chase scenes and explosions," she answered with a shrug.

Before he could press it, her expression became one of concern. She reached for his face and he took a step back. "Jesus. Your nose is leaking bad," she said. Trevor wiped hip upper lip to find some snot mixed with dried blood, which he wiped off with a napkin. "I'm sorry," Randy continued. "I could've saved you both a chase and talked to you back at the studio. I was being high strung and paranoid."

"Hey don't worry about it," said Michael. "We're all clear here, right Trevor?"

He was saying it in that tone that was nagging at Trevor to _drop it already for fuck's sake_ , and now that Randy had brought the injury to his attention, his face was starting to hurt. "Yeah," he said. "We're good."

"All right then. See you around T, and I'll see you tomorrow Randy." Michael left, leaving Randy alone with Trevor.

"You sure you don't need to go to the hospital?" Randy offered. "Your eye's swelling purple."

"The hospital?" Trevor said. "C'mon, I'm not a pussy." He tugged at the knot on the dress. "You want this back? Gettin' kinda warm in this..."

"No. Keep it," Randy said quickly, turning away from him to walk back to her bike. "You look good in it. Greek wrap style suits you."

Trevor glared at her retreating form. "Was that sarcasm?"

Randy threw a glance back at him. "Not a bit."

Trevor growled. _She's running away again._ He followed her to her bike. Seeing her puzzled expression when she mounted her Ruffian to see him standing beside her, he said, "If you're really sorry about the chase, give me a ride back to my truck. I had to park it next to the market."

Randy sighed, but nodded. She placed her backpack it in the rear bag and scootched forward in her seat. "It's the least I could do. Make it awkward, though, and I'm tossing you off."

He sat behind her and promptly crushed her in a tight embrace that left her wheezing. "Good luck with that, sweetheart."

* * *

What should have been a short ride to the sidewalk market took forever as Randy was in utter agony. Trevor's hands brushed against the underside of her breasts every time she hit a bump in the road, and he was pressed so closely that she could feel his body heat through her jacket and now an erection through her jeans.

 _Please be wearing underwear. Please be wearing underwear_. She needed as many layers of clothing between his junk and hers as possible, and the memory of him flashing her yesterday was a virus, bursting forth at random intervals. _Eyes on the road, don't hit any pedestrians... Oh god, there it is again._

"You didn't answer my question," Trevor said. "You don't learn how to race through the streets like you did on a controlled set. You in the life on the side?"

Randy grit her teeth. She wasn't ashamed of what she did in the past, but he was dragging this out of her. "I told you, my story doesn't matter. Why do you want to know?"

" _C'mon_ , you can trust me," Trevor whined.

"You broke into my apartment."

"You were a threat to me and my friends."

"Well, at least that's in past tense."

"Just answer the fucking question!" He gave her ribs a squeeze as if to say that if she didn't cooperate, he'd throw her off, crashing be damned.

Randy sighed. "Back when I first came to Los Santos, and I wasn't making enough money on stunt work yet, I did transportation stuff on the side. Bike goes faster than a car so long as there's only one other passenger, and everywhere in Los Santos there were people desperate to get somewhere on time but couldn't because traffic was bad or they missed their bus. It made enough to live on, but since I was accepting payment without a special license and running a ton of red lights, it wasn't strictly legal. I've lost count of how many different plates I've had." She finally found the red truck on the parking lot and parked next it. "So yeah, sorta in the life, but from what I've heard about Michael and knowing that you're friends with him, not really at your level. Not even in the same game."

"Hey!" He grabbed her shoulders. "It's not. A game. It's a fucking way of life, and I don't appreciate hearing that belittled, Randy."

"My apologies," she said. "Not living the same life, then."

That answer seemed to satisfy Trevor. He got off the bike and into his truck, and whatever relief she had at finally being alone on the seat disappeared when he turned to grin lecherously at her. "So can I call you if I ever need another ride?"

Randy shook her head. "I'm done with that. Besides, you have your own." Not wanting to stay for another outburst, Randy quickly sped off.

The moment she was out of earshot, Trevor dialed Lester. "How you holdin' up, Wheels? I need you to do some research for me..."

* * *

The joy of getting to eat real food and sleep in her own bed again was crushed when Randy stepped into her apartment. Her material possessions were scattered on the floor in a bizarre work of modern art. Her furniture was overturned, and when she glanced in the trash, she saw that he had thrown away some perfectly nice tea candles. To her relief, the posters on the wall had been untouched, and when she stepped over some plates and books to get to her room, the map was whole as well. The framed hundred-dollar bill was still on her desk, and Randy stared at its presence in surprise. _You took one of my dresses but not this_.

Staring at the chaos that hurricane Trevor had caused, the anger and frustration Randy felt was milder than expected. _Do I really have this much stuff?_ There were old magazines that she had kept "for reference" but never reread, workout equipment with a thick layer of dust, and various other objects that she had forgotten even existed. This wasn't helping the peaceful mind she had tried to cultivate for years.

Randy's stomach growled. A quick glance the fridge revealed that it still had the same contents as when she'd left. Taking a deep breath, Randy got to work unearthing the necessary cookware and appliances from the pile. The china and silverware was also removed and put back into the cabinets. As Randy boiled some water for a simple pasta, she swept her eyes over her apartment. _One month. If I don't use it in one month and it has no sentimental value, I'm getting rid of it._ She wasn't going to let Trevor get the best of her. As she enjoyed the sound of the water and allowed herself to be calm, _that memory_ burst forth again, now hideously combined with the memory of Trevor in a dress. In her mind's eye, he was standing over a subway vent like in that old Vinewood flick. _  
_

The temptation to smash her head against the freezer door was great, but Randy knew it wouldn't make the image go away. _Damn you Trevor. Damn you and the dress you swiped from me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy that image as much as Randy does, because soon it will be the least of her problems. I'm happy that people are enjoying this story, and feel free to leave your thoughts and critique in the comments. (And if anyone knows of any fanart resembling Randy's mind virus or wants to make one, that'd be awesome!)


	5. Back to Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how long this took. I hit writer's block because I finished the chase that originally inspired the story. I have the main story beats and the ending planned, but as usual, getting there is agony. In happier news, I'll be moving to Los Angeles in less than two weeks, and may be inspired.

Throughout the afternoon and evening, Randy's mind kept going back to Trevor. Trevor flashing her in his underwear, Trevor in her dress, Trevor flashing her in her dress. It was unavoidable, and after one too many impulses to smash her head with a heavy object, Randy learned to have fun with the memories by letting them continue. Her mind became a movie theater with a special showing on all the ways Trevor could die. Trevor could flash her only to be tazed until he was foaming at the mouth and twitching on the ground back when they first met. He could be standing over a vent in her dress and the vent would collapse underneath him until there was a splash and then silence. As Randy swung her kettlebell back and forth, she imagined him lifting up his skirt to get a rise out of her only for a perfectly timed swing to guarantee there would never be any Trevor Juniors running around and terrorizing the world anew.

The sun was setting and Randy needed a shower somewhere that wasn't sandy or had other people's hair in it. One glance at the bottles scattered on the floor revealed that hurricane Trevor had been through here as well, and Randy nearly threw up at the thought of Trevor using her shower, her towels, _her toilet_. Keeping her clothes on, she placed the bottles back in the shower caddy and on the shelves and dug out the cleaning supplies from the Great Big Pile. Every surface was scrubbed and wiped down until the whole bathroom was spinning from the chemical fumes, and Randy's mind was thinking of various ways Trevor could drown or be poisoned. Exchanging the old towels for clean ones, Randy wiped the sweat from her brow and caught her reflection in the mirror. The day's makeup running down her face, her frizzing hair, and the scowl her mouth was twisted in...

"Motherf-" Randy refused to dwell on it. She stripped and jumped in the shower and didn't leave until she had used every product at her disposal to purify and restore herself. By the time she stumbled out of the bathroom an hour later in a cloud of steam, the only things left untouched in her bathroom were her makeup and sunscreen.

Returning to the mess that was the rest of her apartment, Randy was struck by how clearly she could smell Trevor's previous presence in her apartment now. There was a faint scent of gasoline and burning and... Randy cringed. Somehow, he had brought the smell of that fucking trailer into her apartment. She wondered if he did it on purpose, to make sure that she remembered him and kept thinking about him, in which case it was all his fault that her mind was now a snuff theater starring him in all the productions. It was a flashback to the times she had scribbled violent ends for the people she hated in the margins of her school notebook. Everything she thought she'd abandoned over half a lifetime ago was resurfacing. How much did he know about her life in that trailer?

Randy sighed at her own irrationality and trudged to her bedroom. _What's the point of letting the maniac take up all this brain space?_ At the sight of the map, Randy allowed a welcome round of giggles to burst through her. Trevor had accused her of stalking, and here she was, thinking about him constantly. As she lay down and rubbed her temples, Randy figured that given enough time, she'd let it fade to memory like almost everything else with Sandy Shores. She would never see him again.

_"So can I call you if I ever need another ride?"_

She sighed, finally realizing that Trevor may have meant something besides riding on her Ruffian. No, she probably would see him again, whether she wanted to or not, and inadvertently telling him to go fuck himself may have only served to egg him on. Her backpack would have to stay packed and within arm's reach, and her stun gun fully charged. Randy didn't want to admit it out loud, but she was excited at the thought of it.

With a few minutes of deep breathing, Randy fell asleep to a wonderful vision of Trevor being tied to the back of her Ruffian, dragging along as the pavement flayed him and coyotes devoured the carcass.

* * *

"I suppose it wouldn't be too much to be expect payment for my services as your personalized Eyefind?" Lester griped as soon as he picked up the phone.

"I figure I got enough credit built up with ah, that _history-making score_ I helped you with and got you a huge fuckin' cut of, Lester the Molester," Trevor snarled, knocking back a beer at his strip club office. "Now whaddya got for me?"

Trevor ground his teeth when he heard an exasperated sigh, but Lester came through. "Nothing in her arrest record except for a speeding ticket, but I did find something interesting on her taxes. From 1995 to 2005, she listed her occupation as both entertainer and stunt worker, and she's reported a six figure income on all of her returns to date." Lester chuckled. "Either she was discovered the minute she got out of the taxi or she put that face and body to other uses. It's a well-preserved one, I'll give her that."

"Shut up!" Trevor shouted. "That kinda story is a dime a dozen in Los Santos you moron. We're looking for what she got up to with that motorcycle of hers. I'm telling you, all that bullshit about being a taxi service? I think we might have an experienced crew member to add to our roster."

"I was getting to that!" Lester snapped. "Within the same decade, I found some a few archived LSPD reports on local smuggling operations. There was a collaboration with the DOA to find someone called Roadrunner. If Randall is Roadrunner, and that is a big _unconfirmed_ 'if', then she was a courier who had a valuable reputation for never getting caught. Some communication mishap meant that they never got her to agree to a 'delivery', and Roadrunner seems to have gone quiet a few years before Randall started listing stunt worker as her sole occupation."

"You're a fucking genius, Lest!" Trevor said. "I'll go see-"

"Were you not listening?" Lester said. He made a few strangled noises before sighing. "Nobody, not even Roadrunner's most reliable customers, ever got a peek underneath her helmet. The only reason anyone even knew her gender was because it's tough to wear a leather jacket in the summer's mind-numbing heat. For all we know, this is a random former stripper and a separate courier who was smart enough to get out before social media meant cameras were everywhere. This could be yet another coincidence that you're getting all worked up over nothing."

"It's not _nothing_ , Lester," Trevor said. "It's never nothing." This was why he was CEO of Trevor Philips Industries. He knew an opportunity when he saw one. "Thanks for the info. I'll call you soon."

"If it's another research project, I'm deducting it from your account," Lester said.

"Yeah, fuck you too." The call ended, and Trevor cracked open another beer. The music playing was nails on a chalkboard now that he'd been here for hours, and as nice as his new dress was, it felt too unfamiliar. He swigged down the booze as he mentally went through his profile of Randy Miller. Thirty-six. Stuntwoman since 1995, who knows what for a decade, though Trevor wanted to beat Lester's with his own cane when the nerd had insinuated that Randy might've been doing something wrong by being a prostitute or stripper.

Stripper.

Trevor slammed the bottle down and bolted out of the office. "Wade!" he shouted. "Enough lazing around, I need your help with something. You two," he pointed at the strippers fawning over him. "Take a break, will you?"

"Oh thank God, Trevor," Wade said, bouncing out of the seat. "I need to pee so bad."

"Oh for fuck's- Fine," Trevor said. "But you better be in my office right after, got that?"

"Sure, Trevor." Ah Wade. Always the reliable one, if only he'd hurry the fuck up. Trevor stormed back into the office and opened up every cabinet he could find, digging for another piece of Randy Miller.

* * *

The Great Big Pile was getting smaller, and Randy thought less of Trevor when she was at home, but when she drove back on set the next day, that familiar anxiety set in again, what she recognized was the precursor to the fight-or-flight response. She brought her bag and whip with her to hair and makeup, and after she stepped into today's costume of a long ball gown, Lacey ran up to her.

"Oh my god, are you all right?" she gushed. "I was so worried when you ran into the parking lot with that hobo chasing after you! It was so scary."

The girl meant well, she did, but having another reminder of Trevor threatened to make Randy break out in cold sweat and ruin her hair and makeup. "Everything's good," she muttered. She cleared her throat and said in a brighter tone, "Hotshot himself followed us, and nobody was hurt."

"Oh wow," Lacey giggled. "Did he have to take you on a helicopter ride?" The associate producer's criminal activities were among the worst-kept open secrets at Richards Majestic.

Randy smirked and shook her head. "No guns either, but there was definitely a car chase."

Lacey wanted to know if there were any videos of the chase that she could see, but before Randy could disappoint her double, a shadow fell over them. "Hey Michael," they said in unison.

"Hey, shooting starts in 20 minutes," said Michael. "Randy, I need to talk with you about what happened yesterday. Alone."

There was no threat in his words, but Lacey and Randy shared an uneasy glance before Lacey scurried off.

Michael rubbed the back of his neck and twitched his head. "Listen, Randy, I'm real sorry about what happened yesterday. I swear I had no idea that Trevor was going to show up."

The makeup on Randy's face felt heavy and suffocating as she moved her mouth to speak. "Considering I'm able to talk to you and work on this set, I accept your apology, but-" Randy took a small joy in the way Michael cringed, "-what I'm worried about is whether or not he's going to show up again. He doesn't seem like the type to let things go that easily, and considering I've trespassed on his house and punched him in the face, he's got reasons to hold a grudge." Her breath was speeding up, so Randy took a deep breath. "You seem to know him well enough that he didn't shoot at me because you asked him to. What do you think?"

Michael sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Can't say that's a bad assessment. I'd get more security around here, but he'd mow through them like a motherfucker." Randy's distress must have shown through the makeup, because Michael's face fell and he added, "But he won't fuck things up. H-He knows my work is important to me." There was a tremble in his voice and Randy couldn't quite believe him.

"He's already been to my apartment," she said, her voice hollower than she intended. "He was wearing one of my dresses."

"Fuck, I forgot," Michael paced around, and Randy cracked her knuckles to dispel some of her nervous energy. "All right. As long as you're on set, you're safe. If something happens off, give me a call." His voice got low and he crouched down to whisper harshly to her. "Whatever you do, don't call the fuckin' cops unless you wanna have nightmares for the rest of your life."

 _You might be too late with that last part._ "Thank you. I'll see you on set." With that, Randy went to reunite with Lacey near the snack table.

"What did he say to you?" Lacey asked. "Are you in trouble?"

Randy sighed. "Not with Hotshot, I'm afraid." At Lacey's puzzlement, Randy explained. "That maniac might be coming back. Seems all those times I spent helping you dodge the paparazzi are going to come in handy, sweetheart."

"What?! Gross," Lacey retched, taking a few sips of her mineral water. "Do you need my mace? It's got some crystals on it-"

"No thanks. I have a stun gun with me," Randy said. "Hey, just thought of something. He might come back on set and mistake you for me. If that happens, scream as loudly as you can, and I'll take care of him, all right?"

Lacey threw her head back and cackled. "Hell yeah!"

* * *

Fortunately for everyone involved, the only interruptions to the shoot were the result of an assistant having had one too many drinks and ruining a few takes. After Michael had yelled at them and locked them in the broom closet, the ballroom scenes were shot and everything finished on schedule.

As she rode home, Randy wondered if both she and Michael were being paranoid over nothing. It didn't stop her from glancing around for a familiar red truck or fiddling with her whip at every stoplight, but her anxiousness lessened as time went on and Trevor still hadn't shown up.

It wasn't until she had gotten dinner on the table that a slamming on her door got her adrenaline rushing again. Randy didn't have to glance through the peephole. She knew. Rushing over the pile, she grabbed her bag and jacket and fled to her room. The noise didn't let up, and Trevor seemed to be taunting her as they grew louder and more rhythmic. Her hands were shaking as she ducked under the curtains and opened the window. A slam of her elbow knocked the bug screen out, and Randy steadied herself as she glanced at the tree ten feet ahead and below her.

The banging stopped, and Randy took that as her cue to spring out. Spreading her arms and legs, she landed among the branches with a thud. The foliage scratched at her exposed skin, and she had to reorient herself for a moment before making her way down the tree.

Trevor was waiting for her at the bottom, a grin on his face. "Not too shabby. A bit slow, but hey, you're a bit out of practice in this way of life." He saw her grab for her phone and grabbed her wrist. "Now, now, can't have the cops ruining our fun. HEY WADE!"

A squeaky voice rang out. "Yeah Trevor?"

"I got her, now let's go!"

"Okay!"

Randy refused to let her face fall. Her features hardened. "I wasn't going to call the cops. And what do you mean by our fun?"

Trevor let out a laugh, and his next words turned her blood to ice. "I'm going to see the Roadrunner in action."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. By all means, let me know what you thought. I can feel the muse revisiting already.


	6. Peer Pressure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I considered having Trevor chase Randy around the Perrera Beach Motel back in Chapter 2 in a suspenseful game of Hide-and-Seek, but then Trevor fell asleep in Randy's apartment and the idea was scrapped.

Trevor seemed to anticipate every single move Randy made to get out of or at least distance herself from the awkward situation. He slung his arm around her shoulder in a near death-grip. She was pressed against him so tightly that she could feel the concealed weapons underneath his dress, a silent warning that she wouldn't get very far if she ran. When she tried to duck out and sit in the bed of the truck, he yanked her into the passenger's seat. "You're not getting away that easily sweetheart," he said in the same low tone he used when he'd asked her for another ride. It made her muscles go stiff and her skin clammy. Trevor turned and shouted, "Will you hurry up Wade?"

A young man with dreads and soft face ran up to them and took his place in the bed. "Sorry Trevor. It's nice to meet you Randy," he chirped.

The kid seemed to be well-meaning and too stupid to know any better, but goddammit Randy was pissed and it was all-to-easy to take it out on someone who probably wasn't going to hit back. "Wade, is it?" she seethed. The oh-so-happy tone of his "Yup" only sharpened her tone. "Would you mind telling me why you were about to knock my apartment door down?"

"Oh, I wasn't gonna knock it down," Wade said quickly. "Trevor just told me to knock on it as hard and fast as I could. It was like playing a drum set."

"Again, why?"

"Hey!" Trevor shouted, tightening his grip around her. "Don't talk to him like that. He's my employee, I'll deal with it. Got it?"

Randy's throat tightened and she found it hard to breathe. "Sorry," she choked out. She stared at the road ahead, taking deep breaths to stop herself from shaking. At the scent of meth, booze, and vomit from the truck, she covered her mouth with one hand as she resisted the urge to gag. While Channel X usually put her in a good mood, the fast tempo now made her head spin faster. Trevor lurching and darting through traffic at maximum speed wasn't helping.

The tongue-lashing she was expecting hadn't come yet, but Randy refused to look at him. There would be a smug grin on his face and she would start a fight, and before she knew it he and Wade would be throwing her corpse into a ditch on the side of the road.

Before the silence could get anymore suffocating, Randy blurted, "I meant it when I said I wasn't going to call the cops. I was going to call Michael."

"Pork Chop? Sure why not?" His tone was rather nice, but the steel returned soon enough. "Call him, but _on speakerphone_."

Her fingers were twitching as she punched in the number. One ring, two rings. _Pickuppickuppickupalreadyyou-_ "Hey, Randy?"

"Michael," Randy said, keeping her voice even and steady. "I'm with Trevor right now. You're on speakerphone."

Michael began to groan on the other line when Trevor interrupted. "Hey Mikey! I'm taking her over to Lester's. Meet me there and we'll fill you in."

"What the fuck?!" Michael was using the same tone of voice as he had with the drunken assistant, and Randy pondered how they could tie Trevor up and lock him in a closet somewhere. _Would probably need some elephant tranquilizers_. Snapping out of her fantasy, she continued to listen to the conversation. "Trevor, she's a stuntwoman, and you're taking her to see Lester? I thought you two were clear."

"That was before I found out that your _daredevil_ here has a criminal past," Trevor was practically crooning, and Randy scratched at the seats so she wouldn't maul Trevor.

"Michael, please let me explain in person," Randy said, her knuckles white from how tightly she was gripping her phone. "It's probably not a consolation right now, but I promise it's nothing bad."

She heard shuffling and footsteps and the sound of an engine starting. "Randy, listen to me-"

"Remember Michael," Randy reminded him, "you're on speakerphone."

"I know that!" he snapped. "Just stay calm and civil and you shouldn't have any problems. I don't want any bloodshed, all right?"

"Yes Michael."

"Aye aye captain!"

With that, Michael hung up, and Randy released a sigh. Any moment now, Trevor would bombard her with questions to fill in any gaps in his dossier. She had to remember what she was like almost ten years ago, to deal with an interrogation like this. _Short answers, yes or no if possible. Go with a technical truth. Get him talking so you know more about him._ It wasn't the same without a helmet or a mask covering her face, but with another deep breath, Randy allowed a familiar sense of detachment sink in.

"So Wade, you work for Trevor?" She glanced back. The eager look on his face told her that this would be easy. "What do you do besides... picking people up for rides?"

Trevor squeezed her shoulder and Randy nearly had a heart attack.  _So much for detachment._ "Wade, don't answer that," he said. " _Randy_ 's the one under interrogation here." There it was yet again. Something about the way he said her name made her want to throw caution to the wind and throw herself out of the truck. It reminded her of Sandy Shores, but something in particular that escaped her at this very moment.

"What are we interrogating her for?" Wade wondered.

"Why don't you tell him, Randy?" His hand started rubbing up and down her upper arm, and Randy gripped the window frame to maintain her sanity and to keep still. Wade must've been working with Trevor for a while, because the boy seemed to instinctively know how to move so he wouldn't be thrown out of the bed.

"Wade, I apologize for being snippy earlier," Randy said, turning so she could look at Wade. "I'm just a bit frustrated because for the past two days, your boss here has been chasing me around Los Santos. You know the trailer he lives in right now?" Wade nodded. "My parents used to live there, and I, trying to be a good and dutiful daughter, went up to visit them." She felt his grip tighten for a moment when she said "dutiful", and filed that piece of information away. "Only problem was, they didn't live there anymore. Trevor thought I was trespassing, and now has it in his head that I want to cause trouble for him and his friends. I don't. So really, I'm being interrogated for no good reason other than maybe for his own sick amusement." Once she was done, Randy was pleasantly surprised at how easily everything spilled out. She didn't reveal anything that Trevor didn't already know, and her breathing was even. Maybe Roadrunner had stayed with her more than she realized.

Trevor's hand slid up from her arm to her neck, and when his fingers pressed into her skin Randy knew that Trevor was feeling for her pulse. There was no hiding how nervous she was, but she still had to stay calm and quiet. Before long, he spoke. "Now, there's a bit more to it than that, isn't there sweetheart?" Randy grit her teeth at the term of endearment, and when his hand crept under her chin to force her to face him, she couldn't stop the reflex to bare her teeth at him. His eyes flickered between her and the road, and he was grinning down at her.

"Oh yes," she drawled, seeing the faded bruises and dried blood. "I also punched him in the face yesterday because he showed up to my workplace unannounced. In my defense, I offered to get you medical treatment for that." The way his arm was around her neck, she could feel her pulse beating against his skin.

"I also asked you a simple fucking question," Trevor said, "and you lied to me, Randy." He squeezed her cheeks together for emphasis, and a flash of fire replaced the ice in her veins. Randy chomped at the fingers closest to her mouth, but Trevor quickly swung his arm back around her shoulder and pulled her closer so that their sides were touching. "Ah, see, there's what I'm looking for."

"Everything I told you was true, Trevor," Randy hissed, glaring at him in the hopes that the spontaneous combustion fantasy would come true.

"Nooo, what you told me was _bullshit_ ," he shouted at her in an accusatory tone. "I asked you _twice_ where you learned to ride like that. First you said stunt work, and then taxi service. Well guess what?" His voice dropped low and he tilted her head towards his. "I know everything Randall Miller, so why not avoid making a third strike, huh?"

Randy was close enough that she could see the blurring of his "Cut Here" neck tattoo, see the finer lines and hairs on his face, and it was too much for her. Gripping Trevor's wrist, she scooted away from him and tried to pry him off of her. He let her move away, but his arm was staying around her shoulders at least. "I'm not telling you a thing," she said, matching his volume and tone. "Not until I know why you've chased me from my apartment and until you, Wade, me, and Michael meet with Lester. Wait until then." With that, she turned her eyes to the road, trying to let the rock music soothe her as it did under happier circumstances, when Trevor chuckled.

"I fuckin' knew it."

He hadn't asked her a question, so Randy stayed silent.

"So where did you learn to ride, Randy?" Wade piped up. "Are you a horseback rider?"

In spite of it all, Randy had to laugh. Her joy ended when Trevor braked and only her grip on the side kept her from sliding onto the hood.

"Here we are," Trevor said, finally letting her go to exit the truck. "Wade, make sure she doesn't run."

"Okay." Wade jumped out of the bed and got next to Randy as she got out of the truck. "He's really not so bad," he tried to assure her. "He just gets a little agitated sometimes. He really knows how to have a good time though."

"Thank you, Wade," Randy muttered softly, "but you don't need to worry about me running. Hell, in this part of town, where would I run to?" As soon as she spoke those words, the memory that escaped her finally came to her as if she'd spoken the secret password.

_"C'mon Randy. Where you gonna run to, huh? You gonna run cryin' home to your momma?"_

Randy nearly froze in place, but willed her legs to follow Trevor up the stairs. She hated him more than anything, for bringing so much of Sandy Shores with him that she remembered on a visceral level of why she had left. Every long-healed scar was picked at, threatening to open fresh, and Randy took a deep breath. She was in East Los Santos with Trevor and Wade. The house they were in front of didn't smell of meth, and she wasn't a teenager anymore. The anger dissipated, and Randy noticed the camera moving around above the door.

"Trevor, I take it this is the reason for all those research projects?" a nasally voice spoke through an intercom. _So you're the reason he knows so much about me._ Randy disliked this Lester immediately.

"Yeah, yeah, Lester, just thought I'd bring her here for an interview of sorts," Trevor waved his hand dismissively then flipped the bird at the camera. "Now you gonna let me in you bastard or are you too busy jacking off to sorority girls?"

"Gimme a minute. You, Randall Miller, have been the cause of a lot of trouble for me lately," Randy narrowed her eyes at the camera, but the door clicked open and Trevor shoved her inside, yelling at Wade to watch the car.

* * *

She had nerve, Trevor had to give her that. Jumping out of the window, talking back to him, and then trying to bite him. She unzipped her jacket when they got to Lester's room, but when she went no further, he got up behind her. "Come on, put on a show for me," he purred. "Consider it thanks for me giving you a ride here." She ducked her head and refused eye contact, leaning against the door frame and flapping the collar to fan herself. _Cocktease_.

"Hey Lester! Michael's going to be meeting us here just so you know," he shouted.

"All right, I got it," Lester said, wheeling away from his computers and towards the two guests. He looked over Randy. "So, you're the one he described as 'like me with tits and nice legs'. I'm must say, I don't know if I should be flattered by the comparison. Anyway, because you went to Sandy Shores against all reason and common sense, Trevor here's been asking me a lot of questions about you."

The corner of Randy's mouth twitched. "You're the one who gave him my address?" Her tone was neutral, but her arms cross over her chest and Trevor smirked. She was on the defensive, and this would be easy.

Lester sighed. "I told him that your reasoning of visiting your parents was likely true and that he had nothing to worry about, but _you_ ," he jabbed a finger at Trevor, "insisted that she was a threat, and so I had to keep digging. I found your tax returns-"

Both men noticed the spike of rage in Randy's tight grip on her sleeves and tensed shoulders, not to mention the glare she shot Lester's way, and Trevor geared up for the inevitable explosion. To his disappointment, Randy took a deep breath, and all that remained after that was a twitching eyebrow. "Continue," she murmured.

"Ahem, I found your tax returns and I recognized some common ways to hide income of questionable legal status," Lester explained. "I also found some police reports about your former profession as a courier for the local crime syndicates, _Roadrunner_."

Randy blinked, and then straightened her spine. "I'm not telling you anything more until Michael gets here, if only so I don't have to repeat myself."

"So you know at least when to stop talking," Lester said, chuckling. "Not bad for someone ten years out of practice."

Randy closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, and Trevor stepped closer to her. "C'mon Randy, there's no need for denial here. We got a great gig in store for someone like you." Her eyes stayed shut, but she pinched harder.

She opened her mouth to say something, but stopped at the sound of two familiar vehicles being parked outside . "I recognize the car, but who owns the bike?" she asked.

"Oh hey, didn't know Frank was comin' too," Trevor said. "Took them long enough."

Lester let Michael and Franklin into the house, and Trevor announced, "Hey Mikey, Frank! Say hello to the newest member of the crew."

"Don't listen to him," Randy said. "I haven't agreed to anything ngh." Her tongue tripped over a word at the end, and Trevor could have sworn there was a "yet" that almost escaped.

"Sorry Lester," Michael apologized as he entered the room. "I was afraid these two might kill each other, so I asked Franklin to come as backup. Randy, this is Franklin, a friend of mine. Franklin, this is Randy. She works with me at the movie studio." Shoving past Trevor, Randy fucking smiled at Franklin and they shook hands and exchanged empty pleasantries.

Lester piped up, "Not to worry. I do have some news for the three of you that concerns almost all of us, but first, we need to get this Roadrunner business out of the way." At Michael's confusion, Lester gestured to Randy. "Michael's here now. Care to explain yourself?"

Randy leaned back against the door frame and sighed. "All right. It's been years, nobody's looking for me, so I won't bullshit you" she glanced at Trevor for a moment. "Before I made a living on stunt work, on the side, I ran a delivery service under the codename of Roadrunner."

"Ah-HA! Now was that so hard?" Trevor barked in triumph.

"Why the codename?" asked Franklin.

"Originally it was just a taxi service for people in Los Santos who wanted to get somewhere quickly, but I attracted the attention of gangs, the mafia, you name it, who needed to smuggle goods but needed a less noticeable way to do it," Randy explained. "I gained a reputation for being reliable and relatively cheap. That said, if you want me as a courier, I'm afraid I can't be Roadrunner anymore. Roadrunner was a fully independent agent, and right now, the fact that I work with Michael would violate the rules that made me effective."

"What kinda rules?"

"Hang on, let me try to remember," Randy said, rubbing her forehead. "Well, there's the obvious power to refuse service and the fact that I have to be able to carry it on my bike. Next, like the post office, I get paid on receiving the package, and whoever pays me and gives me the package gets to set the destination and deadline. Keep the packaging discreet and don't tell me what I'm delivering. Oh, and after the delivery is done, I go home. I don't want to be friendly or be invited deeper in your organization, I don't care how much more you would pay me." Randy was wringing her hands. "So yeah. I really don't know why you'd need me for your crew. From the sound and looks of it, you have a competent biker already." She nodded at Franklin, and Trevor growled. She was trying to run away _again_ , and all while he was trying to do her a favor.

"Actually, with what I've learned recently, we might need you," Lester said. "Before I disclose this, Michael, is Randy trustworthy?"

"I just revealed something I've never told anyone, doesn't that count for something even if it's now too out-of-date to be useful?" Randy said. "If you need something else, I'm aware of the behind-the-scenes work Michael did to get _Meltdown_ made, and like every other heartless soul in Vinewood, I don't care."

Michael nodded. "Yeah, she's trustworthy."

Lester peered at Randy. He cleared his throat, and turned towards his computer. "Now that we're less than a year away from electing the next governor of San Andreas, both candidates are stepping up their campaigns," he said, opening up some files. "Remember how I said with that one big score, we'd have government officials hunting us down for the rest of our lives? Well based on e-mails I've intercepted, both Headcase and Headmistress are thinking of hunting us down, being the first to catch us so they can take credit in their version of being tough on crime and guarantee a win. Now Michael's _friends_ in law enforcement can hold them off, but I'm not certain they can withstand the kind of heat that's powered by campaign finance."

Lester closed the files and turned toward the others. "We might need some discreet delivery and espionage work Randy," he continued. "Trevor, Michael, and Franklin, they have some negative history in this town, but you're a relative unknown. You might especially be effective in dealing with Cranley, being both daredevils born and bred in Blaine County."

"I appreciate the offer, but I can't see why I should do this kind of work again," Randy said.

Enough was enough. Randy had been aloof and detached ever since she'd stepped into Lester's, and now that she was actively lying to herself, Trevor was fucking sick of it. "Oh for fuck's sake, Randy," he shouted, throwing off Michael's hand when he tried to grab him by the shoulder. "You know, I went through a lot of trouble to get you here, and you wanna act like you're above all this?" This time, she looked him in the eye, and while he was pleased to see a spark in there, he wasn't done by a long shot. "You wanna know why you'll agree to this?" He circled her. "One. You talk all about how you want my trailer to burn down, how there's nothing for you there? Why the fuck did you bother coming to Sandy Shores?"

"Because I was worried about my parents!" she said, eyes blazing and voice steely. _There she is_. "How many times am I going to have to explain that to you before it registers?"

"Bullshit. Two. You're thirty-six and you live _alone_ in Los Santos," Trevor added, jabbing at her chest with every accusation. "Finally, you gave up the biggest secret of your life with  _barely_ any resistance, and you waited until you had a larger audience to do it. You might think you're past Roadrunner, and above criminals like us, but let me tell you something _Randy_." Her eye twitched when he said her name, and he stopped circling to grab her jacket and pull her close. His voice dropped low. "Nobody just goes to revisit a place they hate out of some fuckin' sense of kindness. You're bored, you're lonely, and admit it, the chases we've had thrilled you in a way the fake Vinewood stuff and your planned tricks don't. So cut the ice queen act and take this opportunity I'm so _kindly_ offering you, huh?"

He could see Randy's pulse thudding in her neck, and out of the corner of his eye Trevor could see her flexing her fingers. If she started crying or swinging, he didn't know what he was going to do. Instead, she sucked in a breath and grabbed his wrists. "Interesting analysis," she huffed, prying his hands off of her, sustaining her glare. "Still, let's say that's true, that I do need thrills and... companionship. Other than those, what do you have to offer me? Before you say money, I got enough money, and I honestly don't need anymore. Your friend there has my tax records, he can probably confirm that."

Even though Randy was shorter than him, the steadiness of her glare made it feel like she was staring him down. Luckily for him, he knew the answer. "You do a job for us, and Lester helps you find your parents. We'll even throw in some cash for, you know, a bonus," he whispered the last part mockingly.

Randy's eyes softened, but she didn't turn back into a statue. "You've given me a lot to think about," she concluded "Before I make my decision though, I need to speak with Lester alone about what he has in mind, and to make the decision without you breathing down my neck."

Trevor looked around. Michael gave him a nod, and after a while, Lester did, too. "Don't take too long, sweetheart." With that, he left the room with Michael and Franklin.

* * *

The moment the door was shut, Randy pulled out her phone and brought up the notepad. Pointing at her phone, she saw Lester nod at her and began typing. "Well, this isn't how I expected my evening to go," she said.

"Can't say the same," Lester replied. "Trevor's been calling me incessantly. This meeting was inevitable from my perspective."

"And it was damn useful too you ungrateful pricks!" Trevor's voice sounded through the door.

Randy handed her phone to Lester. _Do any of them know about Joshua?_ "I will say, I can see the merits," she said. "Local stunt work has been unreliable thanks to CGI and animation, and despite what I said, a slightly larger nest egg can never hurt. That said, what sort of work do you have in mind?"

 _No. Unless they ask directly, I see no reason to tell them._ "Well, there's always sensitive documents involved in this sort of thing, and I need someone who can both retrieve and deliver them," Lester explained. "Being a female who's attractive enough to double for Lacey Jonas gives you easier access to places that us four can't go." Randy had to roll her eyes and grin at the way Lester shuddered at her acting double's name. He had no clue about the girl.

 _If they ask directly, could you lie?_ "Why thank you for the compliment," Randy said. "I take it you four can serve as backup for me and me for you?"

 _I can stall, but Trevor doesn't like being lied to. You can ask Michael about that._ "Of course," Lester said, "but that requires trust that you said Roadrunner couldn't give."

Randy sighed and put away her phone. "I'd hate it if anything happened to Michael," she said, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "As much as I hate to admit it, I may owe Trevor for bringing me here." Her voice went back to normal. "I can't say if I'd be up for more than one job. Just, security and discretion, I can be guaranteed those things in exchange for my skill and keeping my mouth shut?"

"Nothing's 100% guaranteed, you know that," said Lester, "but we will do what we can to ensure those things."

Randy clasped her hands together to say a silent prayer to whatever higher power might be listening. This was her chance at closure, and despite a voice howling at her not to take it, it was drowned out by a chorus of voices telling her she had nothing to lose. She nodded at Lester, and when he nodded back, she turned headed out the door.

"Well Michael," she said, "I trust you can keep quiet about this at work and adjust the shooting schedule as needed?"

Michael smiled. "Sure, Randy."

"So you in, then?" Franklin asked.

For the first time in Trevor's presence, Randy unleashed a beaming smile. "Yeah, I'm in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! I think this is the longest fanfiction chapter I've ever written. Housecleaning's done, and now we can get into something more exciting! Lemme know what you think, and I'll be sure to get back to you.


	7. Blame It on Jack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up. Updates on this story will be much slower in the coming months, as I will begin full-time doctoral studies and I've been warned I will have little to no free time for my program. I fully intend to see this to completion, so don't worry about this ever going dead fic.

After Trevor had released her from a bruising hug, Randy explained between wheezes, "It's just for one job right now. I make no promises that this will be a regular thing."

"Right now?" Trevor repeated with sadistic glee. "So you are thinking of joining us?"

What was the point in lying to him if it would just earn her another lecture? "As much as I hate admitting it," she said, "the idea of it is exciting. I've just never been this involved before. Like I said, Roadrunner's was loyal only to whoever paid her and once the job was done, that loyalty ended."

Both Michael and Franklin paused at her words and threw worried glances at Trevor, and Randy turned to see an odd expression on his face. It wasn't anger or lecherous glee. It was a contemplative calm, staring right at her to break her down into pieces. She stared back, remembering how he'd blown up at her for being distant.

"Well, it's good that I'll be there," he said at last, low and quiet. "If there's anything I'm good at, it's enforcing loyalty."

"That's good to know," Randy said, stepping towards the door, "and it was good to meet you Franklin, Lester. I gotta get home. I haven't eaten dinner yet."

The way that Trevor's face lit up made Randy instantly regret giving that last detail. "Well, now, considering that you're a new crew member-"

"More like a temp."

"Whatever," Trevor dismissed. "I say that we all go out to celebrate. C'mon, it's been a while, you two."

Franklin was cool with it, Michael didn't care either way, and Lester wasn't included because he had research to do and moonshine to drink and besides the atmosphere of most restaurants disagreed with him. Trevor looked at Randy expectantly. She wanted to refuse, but then Trevor would ask her why, and if Trevor found out that he'd caught her right as she had finished preparing dinner, he would want to invite himself over. He would wreck her apartment again, prolong his stay as much as possible, and would probably start looking more closely at the photos she kept and find out more about her family than she ever wanted him to.

Before she was silent too long, Randy shrugged. "I don't see why not. I had no plans for the evening anyway."

* * *

That was how Randy found herself in Singleton's, a plate of BBQ ribs sitting mostly untouched as she swirled around the whiskey in her glass. She was sitting on the outside next to Franklin, while Michael was across from her and Trevor next to Michael in their booth table. She wondered if the other two had silently planned it so she and Trevor would be as far away from each other as possible. Thinking of what she could do to repay them this kindness, even if it was unintended, Randy sighed and her breath caught itself. She'd been sighing a lot since she met Trevor, more than her daily meditation required of her. She had originally ordered lemon water, but Trevor had pissed and moaned about it until she changed her mind just so he would shut up already.

"Jeezus, it's like you're schizophrenic or something," he said. "You go from water to Jack Daniel's? What the hell did Los Santos do to you?"

Rolling her eyes, Randy took a sip from her glass. "It didn't do anything to me," she said. "Alcohol makes me look bad, is expensive, and makes it harder for me to do my job. Same reasons I don't smoke." At the grimace on Trevor's face, she smiled wryly and added, "My looks are one of the few things I have going for me. I'm vain and want to keep them as long as possible without getting sliced up or injected."

"You do motorcycle stunts for fun and you's scared of needles?" Franklin asked.

"It's not the needles, it's what's in them and what happens when it goes wrong. I have more control with stunts," Randy shivered. "You seem pretty young yourself. How'd you get roped into this crew?"

Franklin told her about his short-lived career as a repo man, and soon Randy was smiling for real. Then he got to the part where Michael introduced himself, and Randy was shaking with contained mirth.

"So he's got his piece aimed at me, and I'm like, 'I just work the fuckin' repo,'" Franklin said, grinning, "and then he tells me to drive drive right through the fuckin' window or he'd pop me and do it himself."

Randy choked out, "And you did?" At Franklin's sheepish nod, she let out a hearty laugh. Michael then jumped in and explained how he'd ended up millions in debt to a Mexican crime lord and asked Franklin to assist.

"And because Mr. Richards Fanboy couldn't resist spouting off an old catchphrase," Trevor snarled, a shark's smile splayed across his face, "I found out that he was a treacherous snake who'd been hiding in Los Santos for ten years while I thought he was dead."

Randy's spit her drink back into her glass as Michael retorted,"For fuck's sake, will you ever drop that?"

"Maybe when you drop that spare tire, so no, Pork Chop," Trevor shot back. Judging from the grin, it didn't seem to really be a grudge, more of a running joke that he couldn't resist using over and over to get Michael riled up. Why wouldn't he when it worked so well?

Michael's face was getting red, and not just because he was getting a bit drunk. "We were good! You said so yourself."

Randy turned to Franklin with a smirk on her face. "So tell me, do Mommy and Daddy fight like this all the time?"

"You caught these assholes on a good day," Franklin deadpanned, and both of them snickered at the incredulous expressions Trevor and Michael were now sporting.

"Wait, which one of us is Mommy?" Trevor asked.

Out of the corner of her eye, Randy looked at Trevor and up and down the dress of hers that he was still wearing. It hadn't been a new one, but stretching across Trevor's frame had split the seams, and there were stains splotched across the fabric. No, it wasn't her dress anymore. He'd claimed and ruined it. "I wonder," Randy muttered, still smirking. "You're wearing a dress, but you're angry pretty much all the time. Michael, you're pretty easygoing, even spoiling from what I hear, until you're pushed too far at which point people on set start locking themselves in their trailers to delay your wrath and piloting skills." She took another sip of her drink, savoring the warm feeling in her throat combined with everyone's uncomfortably amused expressions. "I'd say you share the role. I mean, from the sounds of it, seems like Franklin and I got in the same way, only mine was, 'I'm just looking for my parents' instead of 'I'm just doing my job.'"

Trevor eyes narrowed and his teeth bared. _Oh goody, another fight_. The alcohol must've finally begun to kick in, as her glass was now more than half empty and she'd only been taking small sips for the past half hour or so. "What the hell was I supposed to think? Biker sneaking around my house who gives a fake name when asked?" he said. "Who's clearly full of shit?"

"I saw someone in nothing but their underwear stalking towards me," Randy reminded. "Forgive me if I don't want to give out my real name."

"All you had to do was cut the shit and talk with me," Trevor said with a whine, and Randy smiled. _Ah, so that's how he is_.

"I might've," she muttered, "if you hadn't flashed me." Her voice betrayed her, going low and raspy as the image that had lied dormant for hours now resurfaced with a tap dancing vengeance, and Randy knocked back the rest of her drink and pressed her fingers to her temples as she shut her eyes. If she could see Michael's face getting red in the low light, they could probably see her face glowing as she got hot under the collar.

"Weeeell now, so you're still thinking about it," he said in that low tone that made her skin crawl. "How 'bout you get out of that jacket and jeans and give me that show?"

"Man, what did I say about sexual harassment in the work place, T?" said Franklin.

Later that night, Randy would blame the whiskey for what she said next, but in that moment, a fire in her belly started and she couldn't help herself.

"Please," she drawled, cocking her eyebrow. "You think your pencil dick can satisfy me?"

Back when she had made her crack about loyalty, the expressions that Michael and Franklin had pulled could be best described as uncomfortable. Now Michael looked on the verge of cardiac arrest while Franklin slumped over and buried his head in his hands. Randy moved her leg just to remind herself of where her stun gun was.

Trevor, however, only grinned and took the bait. "Pencil dick?" he mocked. "You were so fuckin' scared of it you jumped on your bike just at a _peek_ of what I have to offer." Michael's face had returned to a normal color while Franklin lifted his head from his hands now that Trevor's first response hadn't been to shoot or punch her, so Randy decided to push further.

"That's cuz it's ain't everyday that you see a real life Ken doll," she laughed. "Not even a mosquito could suck from that thing."

"Really?" Trevor leaned across the table and got his face as close to her's as possible. "How 'bout we leave these two killjoys so you can take a closer look?"

She had to admit, the low growl of his voice set off a tremor in her bones, an ache for something she could've sworn she'd lost interest in. She remembered the previous chorus of voices in her head that had told her she had nothing to lose, but now they were subdued. When he leaned in close and she got a scent of him, she remembered why.

_"C'mon, I'm feeling randy, both kinds," he laughed at his own stupid joke, one he'd worn as threadbare as the shirt he was pawing at her tits through. "Oh, don't pull that face, Randy..."_

The fire in her belly was gone, and her mind was left with the ashes. Her smile dropped and she broke eye contact to stare at her empty glass. "That ship sailed years ago, I'm afraid," she said, trying to sound dismissive, even waving her hand. "If you need action that badly, this is Los Santos. It ain't that hard." As she reached into her bag to get out her wallet, Trevor lunged across the table and seized her wrist.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?!" he snarled, all light and humor gone from his eyes.

* * *

This time, this time Trevor thought he finally had her. She might as well have been flirting with him, talking shit the way she did as the traces of a Blaine County accent crept back into her voice. Just as he was about to celebrate, she threw up that fucking wall of ice and then tried to bail on him _again_. Not now. She had signed onto this, and now she had to pay the price by being completely honest.

"Trevor, let go of me," she said. He would've been happy to hear the steel in her voice, but know that he knew it was part of her holier-than-thou ice queen front, it grated on his nerves.

"What kind of a two-faced harridan are you, huh?" he shouted at her, ignoring Mike and Frank's frantic waving and shushing. "The moment that you're even the slightest bit uncomfortable with a situation, you decide it's time to bail? You fuckin' except me to trust _you_ with my life and that of my buddies here?"

"This is about that comment I made on loyalty, isn't it?" Randy asked, detaching from the situation at hand. "For the record, I have never betrayed anyone. I do my job, I go home." Annoyance crept back into her voice as she continued, "Is this another one of those things I'm going to have to repeat until you get it already? I wonder whether I should even do this job if it means I have to spend time with you."

The dig barely stung, because Trevor finally heard her admit out loud that he had gotten to her. He stood up so that he was staring her down, and he simply asked, "Why?"

She didn't disappoint. Lifting her chin, she asked, "You really want to have this conversation, Trevor?" The cracks were beginning to show, and now she just needed another push.

"You don't tell me now, I'll get out my dick again," he warned, not a trace of a smile on his face.

Randy's eyes narrowed and her shoulders tensed as she took a deep breath, and for a moment Trevor was reminded of being careful what he wished for. "You have to remember, I was born in Sandy Shores when it was still a resort town, a nice place for a family vacation," she said, voice low and cold to match her eyes. "Now, given what happened to the Alamo sea, the meth trade booming there may've been inevitable, but god dammit it was pretty harsh to go from wandering the entire town _alone_ when I was four to not being allowed to leave the house after dark by the time I was ten."

She struck his arm and yanked her wrist away, and before Trevor could start screaming at her, she jabbed a finger at him to shut him up. "Now, you may not have been 'Blayne Counteh bawn and brehd'," she said, voice rising and eyes lighting up, "but you are the embodiment of everything that went wrong with Sandy Shores and why I left: A selfish prick who bullied and disgusted everyone, even people who helped you, for a spare buck and a cheap thrill, and who will probably shoot me the moment I get the slightest bit inconvenient. Forgive me if I'm _uncomfortable_ hanging around a long lost O'Neil brother." Randy grabbed the strap of his dress and pulled him down so they were seeing eye to eye. "I'm going to do one job, and then I'm free. There, is that that what you wanted when you told me no BS?" Trevor was struck silent, so Randy shook him. "Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Trevor's mind rushed at everything she had spat at him. He would've lashed out at her, especially for comparing him to that rotting inbred family, but up close, her skin was flushed and sweating along with a few tendrils of blond hair that hung around her face. Her eyes were fiery, and while he didn't want to break eye contact, he was pretty sure that if he glanced down, he could see her cleavage and what kind of bra she was wearing underneath her tank top. The rest of Singleton's had gone silent as everyone was witnessing the argument that had broken between them, and as the quiet stretched on, Trevor stared back at Randy with a grin, daring her to be the one to break it.

Unfortunately, it was Michael who broke the silence with his fat fucking trap to say, "I'd say Mommy and Daddy are fighting again."

"Fuck off (Michael)!"

Both Trevor and Randy had spun their heads around to snap at Pork Chop, and at the sound of each other's voice, their heads snapped back to gawk at each other. Trevor felt his face split into a grin and he guffawed, his laughter only increasing at the sight of Randy's mortified expression. Rather than shrink or retreat, though, her face twisted into a grin and her shoulders trembled as she began to laugh along at the weirdness of it all. The two of them soon sat back down and caught their breath. Randy called over a waiter to get her ribs to go while setting a couple of twenties on the table.

 "Thank you for picking me up today," she wheezed, releasing a few more giggles. "Even if you're still a prick, this was fun."

Trevor found himself smirking back. "No problem," he said, before he remembered. "Let's just get one thing clear here, though." He leaned across the table, but was feeling charitable and gave Randy her precious breathing room. "Me and the O'Neill brothers are nothing alike. For one thing, I'm still around, and every last one of them has their name on a tombstone."

Randy's eyes widened and her smile dropped. Blinking a few times, she asked, "The O'Neill brothers are dead?"

"Put 'em down myself," Trevor replied. "Well, these two helped with Walton, Wynn, and ol' Elwood himself. I blew up the rest of them with their meth lab."

Her eyes dropped as she took in the information. To Trevor's approval, her features remained relaxed, so she wasn't going ice queen again. It made her look oddly vulnerable. Randy lifted her eyes and looked straight at him, a small nervous smile gracing her face.

"Good," she said. "This probably doesn't mean much coming from me, but thank you."

She had yelled at him not a few minutes ago and now had thanked him twice in quick succession. For the second time, Trevor didn't quite know what to say, so he just said, "Eh, you're welcome, I guess."

Randy's smile widened and her eyes were warm again, and Trevor knew he was in fucking trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some wonderful feedback from ScooterSister last chapter, I felt like I'd written myself into a corner as far as the Eventual Romance promised in the tags, since Trevor's been such a bully to Randy and Randy's responded with her frosty contempt. What better way to get things to ease up than with alcohol?


End file.
